


A Small Snag

by otherhawk



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's Eleven (2001)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mugging, Table Dancing, quiet insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing the rings a week before the wedding? This might just be the worst thing a best man can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Snag

Livingston squinted at the screen as row after row of numbers scrolled past. There was a mistake in his code somewhere, he knew, but he really wasn't seeing it right now. But then, he had been at this for fourteen hours so it was completely possible it was right in front of him, jumping up and down and saying 'I'm a coding error' and he wasn't seeing it. Bobby Caldwell had seen the security system hijack he'd done during the Gaunt job, and he'd said the bureau could really use a program like that to catch bad guys who weren't them. Hopefully. Except to sell it to them, he had to clean it up and program a user interface usable by field agents, which wasn't even close to his field of expertise. But Bobby had said that there might be more consultant work to follow from this and he'd said that the money was good and the cover story was even better, and the mix of freedom and security that suggested had appealed to Livingston. Even if it meant he was working sixteen hours a day and surviving on coffee, Cheetos and pizza that was inevitably cold by the time he'd got round to eating it.

 

He'd just found another section that he was going to need to recode when there was a knock at the door.

 

He froze. That was worrying. It was ten o'clock at night and he was in a secure entry building. Anyone who wanted to see him would have to have buzzed in order to get in. It could be one of the neighbours, he supposed, but he didn't think he'd been doing anything wrong, so he really didn't know what they'd want.

 

The knock came again, fainter than before. He stood up and – as quiet as could be – crept over to the door and peeked through the spyhole, not even breathing.

 

Rusty was standing there, and Livingston took a second to suppose that explained how he'd got in, but the thought flew out of his head immediately because there was blood all the way down the side of Rusty's face.

 

The door had flown open before he'd even consciously put his hand on the lock. “What happened?” he demanded breathlessly.

 

Rusty blinked, like he was surprised to see him. He had a black eye and a swollen lip too, Livingston realised with dismay. “I lost the rings,” he announced.

 

Livingston nodded distractedly, like that made sense. “Come in,” he said, ushering Rusty inside. “You should, uh, you should sit down,” he suggested, steering Rusty towards one of the stools in the kitchenette. “Just stay there a minute.” He grabbed a clean towel and ran it under the tap for a second. “Are you hurt anyplace else? Should I call a doctor?” he asked as he started dabbing vaguely at the cut on Rusty's head. It was hard to tell beneath the hair, but there was a large lump and it looked pretty bad. “Or an ambulance? Or Danny?”

 

Rusty jumped to his feet and pulled away, spinning round to stare at him. “Don't tell Danny. You can't tell Danny.”

 

“What?” he gaped. “Why? What's going on?”

 

“I lost the rings,” Rusty said again, like that should explain everything. “Danny only gave them to me tonight, and I've already lost them. The wedding's next Saturday.”

 

That he did know. He'd already rented a tuxedo. “The wedding rings?” he asked, trying to make sense of all this. “Danny gave you them for safe keeping?” He moved closer, pressing the towel against Rusty's head again. It seemed to be still bleeding, or at least oozing. That couldn't be good.

 

Rusty snorted. “Safekeeping. Yeah. I fucked up, Livingston. I gotta make it right.”

 

He sounded desperate. “Okay,” he agreed placatingly, just needing Rusty to stay still so he could get a better look at his head. He still thought he should probably be calling a doctor. “What happened?”

 

“I'd had dinner with Danny and Tess,” Rusty started to explain as he paced up and down in front of the counter restlessly. “And after, I went to get a cab and I took a short cut across an alley and three guys jumped me. I fought back....I _tried_ to hold onto the rings, I really did. Thought that maybe if I made it difficult enough they'd just take my wallet and stuff. But they got me on the ground and they pried 'em out of my hand, and when I tried to chase them they smashed my head into the wall.”

 

“God, are you alright?” he exclaimed. Might be a stupid question, but he was imagining how much worse it might have been and the thought had him freaked out. “Rusty, I really think you need to see a doctor.”

 

“What I _need_ is to get the rings back,” Rusty said, pulling free of the compress again and leaning heavily on the counter. “I got a good look at the guys while they were hitting me. I think I got a good enough description to try and track them down.” 

 

“Track them down?” Livingston echoed shrilly. “You want to track down the men who robbed you?”

 

Rusty shrugged. “The rules don't apply when they use violence, you know that.”

 

“It wasn't the rules I had in mind,” Livingston said, frustrated. “Suppose they have guns? Suppose they hurt you again?”

 

“This time I'll be the one with the element of surprise,” Rusty said with another shrug. “They'll never expect me to come after them.”

 

Well, no. Because that would be crazy. Livingston bit his lip. “I really think you should call Danny,” he said.

 

“No!” He stood, shaking his head agitatedly. “No. I told him he could trust me. And I'm not gonna tell him that was a mistake until I've made it right again.”

 

All he could do was stare. The towel was dripping onto the floor. “Uh, I think you might have a concussion,” he said helplessly.

 

Rusty looked at him, his eyes filled with desperate appeal. “Please, Livingston.”

 

He shifted uncertainly. It occurred to him that there was no real reason for Rusty to have come here. Unless, maybe, Rusty was feeling freaked out himself and wanted to see a friendly face.

 

He gave in. To be honest, it was probably inevitable. “Alright. What do you need?”

 

The smile was dazzling and thankful. “Can I use your phone? I need to go through my contacts and see if anyone knows where they might try and fence the stuff.”

 

“Of course.” He grabbed his cell phone off the counter and threw it over and Rusty started dialling immediately. Livingston wasn't surprised that he didn't even have to think about the numbers he needed. He'd stopped asking long ago.

 

He still thought this was probably a very bad idea.

 

*

 

Four fruitless phone calls later, he still thought so. Though he now had a good enough description of Rusty's attackers that at least he'd probably know them on sight. Three men in their late twenties/ early thirties, all white and dressed in jeans and leather jackets, one about six five with a large scar running down his nose and across his left cheek, the other two shorter and stockier, one with red hair and the word 'King' shaved into the back of his head, the last with a blue-black mullet and a tattoo of a gun on his neck.

 

“I got beaten up by a guy with a mullet,” Rusty said with a sigh as he paused briefly to drink the water Livingston had brought him. “That's just embarrassing, you know?”

 

“I, uh, don't think that his fashion sense was the worst thing about him,” Livingston pointed out.

 

Rusty smiled tiredly. “Yeah. His breath stank too.” He leaned back against the counter, stretching, and his shirt rode up, showing the dark bruises streaked across his stomach. Livingston wasn't surprised. But he was still angry.

 

He bit his lip. “You know, Danny is going to be a lot more worried about you than the rings.”

 

“Yeah,” Rusty said with a shrug. “But that doesn't mean they're not important. Believe me, you don't want to know how much time he and Tess spent looking for the perfect wedding rings. I can't tell them I lost them, I just can't.”

 

He still had that odd shadow of vulnerability hanging over him, and Livingston felt strangely protective. Impulsively he reached out and grasped Rusty's hand. “You didn't lose them, they were stolen,” he protested. “Danny will understand.” Danny would understand the rings being stolen, anyway. Understanding that Rusty had fought to hold onto them and then hadn't immediately called him would probably have Danny hitting the roof.

 

Rusty just shrugged again and deliberately picked up the phone and dialled another number. “Hey, Jacques, 's Rusty,” he said. “I'm looking for a bunch of guys who'll be looking to fence some gear tonight. You got a minute?”

 

Livingston scowled and picked up the glass, listening to another description of the three muggers. Part of him thought that maybe he should give Danny a call anyway, let him know what was going on. He'd be willing to bet that Danny would have much more luck getting Rusty to see a doctor, or at least would be able to tell definitively whether or not Rusty _should_ be seeing a doctor.

 

“Yeah?” His ears pricked up; Rusty sounded surprised and hopeful. “Thanks, man, I owe you one.” He hung up the phone and grinned at Livingston. “Jacques knows a guy who saw then hanging out at Charlie Atlas' place.”

 

“Charlie Atlas?” Livingston repeated.

 

“Used to be a body builder,” Rusty explained. “Anyway, I'm not exactly one of his confidants, so I'm gonna head round there and talk to Charlie myself. Thanks for all your help, Livingston. I appreciate it.”

 

“Anytime,” Livingston said automatically as Rusty grabbed his jacket and started walking unsteadily towards the door.

 

Oh, this wasn't a good idea. Tracking down the muggers was a bad idea, going to see an ex body builder was a bad idea....probably even standing up was a bad idea right now. There was no way Livingston could let him walk out of here on his own.

 

“Wait,” he said urgently, quickly sweeping a pile of random equipment off the counter and into a rucksack. “I'll come with you.”

 

This was probably a bad idea too.

 

*

 

Charlie Atlas owned a gym in a part of town Livingston hadn't even known existed. It was half eleven but the place was still open. “So, um, what are we doing?” he asked, trying to sound....nonchalant. Yes, nonchalant was definitely what he was aiming here for.

 

Rusty had his knuckles pressing gently against his forehead. “What?” he asked, sort of looking up and squinting like he was trying to think around the pain.

 

“What's the plan?” Livingston repeated with a worried glance. “I mean, if you still want to go through with this. Maybe we should just go home instead. Or at least go find a drugstore or something....buy some drugs.”

 

The pain melted away and Rusty was smiling. “Oh, I'm sure there's somewhere around here I could buy drugs.”

 

He scowled. “You know what I mean. Seriously, Rusty, you don't look so good.”

 

“I always look good,” Rusty protested with a pout. “And as for the plan.....I was planning on improvising.”

 

That wasn't reassuring. He followed Rusty inside nervously. There were around a dozen men standing around a boxing ring lifting weights, half naked and sweaty and he looked aside uncomfortably. As the door swung shut behind them, everyone stopped and turned to stare. Oh, God, this was just like in those old Westerns Rusty had made him watch, and those _never_ ended without a fight. This really wasn't his sort of place. He had a feeling that if they even _thought_ he was staring, they'd probably tear him apart. He shivered involuntarily as the two guys in the ring leaned against the rope and shouted something in Spanish. He had no idea _what_ but the mix of jeers and catcalls were enough to give him the general idea, and he took a step closer to Rusty.

 

Flashing him a quick smile, Rusty nodded towards the rickety-looking iron stairs at the back of the gym. “Charlie'll be up there, I guess,” he said.

 

“O-kay....” Livingston said slowly. He blinked nervously, glancing quickly to the side as he realised that the gym-goers had closed up behind them, surrounding them and blocking off the exit. “Um, when you said you weren't his confidant - “

 

“ - never met him before,” Rusty assured him in a low voice.

 

Oh. So if this ended in bloodshed, it probably wasn't personal. That wasn't exactly reassuring. With a glance at the lump still clearly visible on Rusty's head, he took a step back, trying impossibly to stand in front of as many of them as possible. Really, he had no idea what he hoped to do, he was just busy wishing he was a foot taller.

 

A hand fell heavily onto his shoulder and he was yanked backwards by a guy wearing purple silk shorts. Don't look, don't look, don't look, he told himself. This was just like being back in high school. Maybe if he pretended he didn't notice, they'd get bored and wander off.

 

“Hi there,” Rusty said with a blurry smile, craning his head to look up at purple shorts guy. “We're here to see Charlie.”

 

“Is he expecting you?” the guy rumbled.

 

“Nah. You can tell him that Rusty Ryan is looking for him,” Rusty said cheerfully.

 

He looked round at the stairs and a dark figure at the head nodded.

 

“Alright, guess you two pansies can go on up,” purple shorts guy said, shoving Livingston forwards with a disparaging wave of his hand.

 

“Uh, sure. Thank you,” Livingston said hesitantly, quickly hurrying after Rusty and ignoring the laughter breaking out behind them. He was so far out of his element here it was like being on a different planet. Sure, he was a criminal, and most of his friends and associates these days were criminals, but for him, crime generally involved standing in front of a computer or a phone, or in extreme cases, a fuse box or a telephone exchange. He wasn't the person who walked into meets with scary guys with unlikely names.

 

The room at the top of the stairs was a cramped office. Or maybe it wasn't actually cramped, but with five guys sitting around a desk playing poker right now it was looking crowded. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and he was sure he was going purple with the effort not to cough. You would think people in a gym would care more about their health.

 

The man sitting behind the desk was was bald and heavy-set, and when he opened his mouth his smile was wide and toothless. “So which one of yous is Ryan?” he asked.

 

Rusty took a step further into the room and leaned casually on the back of the empty chair. “I am, Charlie,” he said easily.

 

Charlie laughed. “And what the fuck happened to your face?” he asked curiously. “You step into the ring downstairs with my boys?”

 

“Something like that,” Rusty said over the sycophantic laughter.

 

“I heard of you,” Charlie nodded. “You work for that slick grifter, Danny Ocean, that right?”

 

“Something like that,” Rusty agreed with a grin.

 

Livingston bristled. “ _With,_ not for. They're partners,” he said firmly.

 

Rusty half glanced round at him. “Like I said. Something like that.” There was a warning there, only Livingston wasn't exactly sure what it was. It was all well and good Rusty saying 'improvise', but how was Livingston going to know just what they were improvising? Should he be watching for signals? He didn't know what the signals _were_ or even if he'd know them if he saw them.

 

“Yeah?” Charlie looked at him with interest. “And who the fuck are you?”

 

“Me? Uh, I'm Livingston Dell,” he stuttered. “I, uh, work with Rusty. Sometimes.”

 

“Sure,” Charlie snorted. “You a 'partner' too?”

 

“Tech consultant,” Rusty interjected. “But he's here as a friend.”

 

“Uh huh. And what do you and your 'friend' want with me, huh?” Charlie asked, leaning back and lighting a fresh cigarette.

 

“I'm looking for some people,” Rusty said evenly. “Jacques thought you might know them. Big guy with a scar on his face and his two friends. One's got a gun tattooed on his neck, the other's got red hair. Sound familiar?”

 

Charlie laughed. “Maybe. What's it to you?”

 

“They have something of mine,” Rusty said smilingly. “I want it back.”

 

That only provoked more laughter, and Livingston felt his heart beat faster. This was all a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Charlie asked when the laughter finally died down a little. And how are _you_ going to get it back from _them?_ ”

 

Rusty smiled brilliantly, as if nothing was wrong and the room was completely on his side. “Thought I'd try asking nicely.”

 

And now the whole room was laughing fit to burst, and Rusty's eyes flickered towards him quickly and with an effort he managed to force himself to join in. “Hahaha. Haha.”

 

“Oh, I like you,” Charlie said to Rusty as he wiped his eyes. “Ask them nicely,” he mimicked, his voice a fluting falsetto. “I gotta remember that one. So. Maybe I seen your guys, maybe I haven't. Why don't you and your 'friend' sit in for a few hands while I think about it.”

 

It didn't seem to be a question. It didn't seem like they had a lot of choice.

 

*

 

Of course Livingston knew how to play poker. It was just a question of looking at the cards in your hand, comparing them to the cards in the middle and trying to make the best possible hand. Nothing complicated. The problem came in trying to _play poker_ when there were other players, and bets, and money involved. Like when you were holding two clubs with another two showing and one card still to deal. There was only a twenty five percent chance that the next card would be a club, but Rusty said you should always bet like you had the flush. It was a world he'd never quite get.

 

And it was all so much worse when he didn't know what Rusty was planning, or if the game was straight or crooked, or even what the stakes were.

 

Naturally, Rusty seemed completely unconcerned. He was smiling and trading jokes and stories with Charlie and his nameless associates. In fact, right now he was advising one of them what to say to his girlfriend's father.

 

“Look, you love the girl, right? That's what the old man wants to know. That you're gonna look after her and treat her like a princess. Remember, she's his little girl. No guy wants his daughter dating a guy like him. It's not about you, anyone she dates is gonna be a punk in daddy dearest's eyes.”

 

“So what do I do?” the guy asked, his brow furrowed.

 

Rusty shrugged. “You gotta show him you're different. You gotta show him you're serious. Take him out for a beer, someplace nice and quiet. Tell him his daughter means a lot to you. Tell him you'd never hurt her, but if you do - “

 

“ - I'd _never_ hurt her,” the guy interrupted seriously.

 

“Sure,” Rusty agreed. “But _tell_ him, if you ever do, he's fine to take a baseball bat to your face. Oh, and find out what he likes. You know, hobbies and sports teams and shit like that, and make sure you can talk to him about it. You'd be amazed how easy it can be to get someone to like you.”

 

“See, that's good,” the guy across from Livingston said, throwing a handful of chips into the pot. “I should be writing this shit down.”

 

“Like you even _have_ a girl,” Charlie snorted.

 

“Yeah,” the first guy chimed in. “Your right hand don't need fancy words, bro.”

 

In the middle of the laughter, Rusty quietly scooped the pot. He seemed to be alright, but Livingston wasn't quite convinced. A time or two he'd noticed Rusty squinting at his cards like he was struggling to focus on the numbers. It had him worried, and that wasn't even accounting for the fact that Rusty was winning. A lot. Already the pile of chips in front of him was noticeably larger than anyone else's and it made Livingston nervous. No matter how ingratiating Rusty was, he doubted these guys were gracious losers.

 

All the worry maybe accounted for the way _he_ was losing even worse than he'd expect to. And that was worrying, because they hadn't set any kind of stake when they'd sat down, and now he'd lost most of his chips and he had no idea what any of them were even worth. He doubted he had enough though. He had seven dollars in his pocket and that was it, and what with being robbed, there was no way Rusty had even that. If they lost, this could be disastrous.

 

Really, he had no idea what Rusty's plan was, and he just tried his best to play the game, hoping not to lose too much. It was all he could do. Unfortunately, the cards fell against him and by the time the game was played out, Rusty taking most of the pot, Livingston had nothing left.

 

“Guess it's your lucky night,” the guy with the girlfriend said to Rusty sourly.

 

“It's beginning to look that way,” Rusty agreed cheerfully, counting out his chips. “I'm up 325.” He waited with an air of expectation, and Livingston was just waiting for him to mention his attackers again. That was the point of all this, after all. They didn't need money. But Rusty didn't say anything, and with a dismissive grunt, Charlie waved to one of his guys to start counting out the pot.

 

“And your share, _friend,”_ the guy said, looking straight at Livingston. “You owe four hundred.”

 

His eyes widened. “Uh...that is...I mean I don't...”

 

The man sitting next to him jumped violently to his feet, his hand crashing onto Livingston's shoulder. “What the fuck's this? You trying to cheat us?”

 

“No! I mean, _no,”_ he insisted frantically, and he looked over at Rusty and Rusty met his eyes, resigned and frustrated.

 

He screwed this up. He didn't even know _how_ but he'd screwed this up. God, why had Rusty even bothered taking him along?

 

“Here,” Rusty said with a crooked smile, shoving his chips back into the pot. “That should cover most of it, and this,” He pulled out a large roll of bills and peeled off a handful. “This should cover the rest.”

 

“Ha.” The man let go of Livingston's shoulder and sat back down. “So much for your lucky night, huh?”

 

Rusty grinned easily. “Easy come, easy go. Doesn't matter.”

 

“You're a good guy,” Charlie said, standing up and slapping Rusty on the shoulder jovially and Livingston winced as he caught the briefest flicker of pain that crossed Rusty's face. “You're loyal to your friends, and you're a good sport. I like that.”

 

“Thanks,” Rusty said lightly.

 

Charlie looked at him for a second, his lips pursed. “The guys you're looking for...I know them. They work out here sometimes. The big one calls himself Fister. His friends are AJ and King.

 

“Fister?” Rusty repeated, eyebrows raised.

 

“He's good with his fists,” Charlie said with a shrug.

 

“I bet he is,” Rusty murmured.

 

“They all work as part time muscle for Mario Silver,” Charlie went on. “You know him?”

 

“By reputation,” Rusty allowed, and that was good, because Livingston had certainly never heard of him. “Thanks, Charlie. 's appreciated.” He turned to walk out and Livingston quickly stood and hurried after him.

 

“It was nice to meet you,” he said at the door, and they walked out to the sound of more laughter.

 

He waited until they'd crossed the gym and were outside before speaking. “Okay. What just happened?”

 

“Sorry, Livingston,” Rusty said regretfully. “I needed you to lose. He wasn't gonna give the info unless it was his idea, so I had to make an impression.”

 

Oh. He supposed that made sense. “Do you think you could warn me next time?” he grumbled. He frowned. “Wait, where did the money come from?” he asked curiously. “Surely if they took the rings, they would have taken that?”

 

Rusty grinned. “Came from the guy downstairs,” he explained. “The one who put his hand on you.”

 

“Oh.” He blinked, remembering the guy in the tight purple shorts. “Where was he keeping the cash?” he asked largely involuntarily.

 

“Pretty much where you're thinking,” Rusty told him with a brighter grin.

 

“And he didn't notice you taking it?” he blinked again.

 

The grin widened. “I'm just that good,” Rusty told him. “Anyway, he seemed a worthy donor to the cause, but we probably want to be further away before he notices.”

 

Definitely. They hurried back towards his car.

 

“So what do you know about this Mario Silver?” he asked once they were inside. “Is he...I mean, do you have an 'in' with him?”

 

“Not a chance,” Rusty said with a grimace. “We don't exactly move in the same circles. He's ex mob. Went into business for himself after the last crackdown. Mostly he's into home invasions along with the occasional protection racket. I heard he's also the guy to talk to if you want someone beaten up.”

 

“Not a nice guy then,” Livingston concluded.

 

“Not at all,” Rusty agreed. “But I figure he's our next stop anyway.” He glanced at Livingston carefully. “Look....if you want to head home, that's fine, you know? Believe me, I appreciate you coming along, but I don't _expect_ it. I'll understand if you want to take off. No questions and no hard feelings.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I'm not going to let you walk into a mobster's place yourself. You can forget that right now.” Rusty was in trouble, and Livingston was never going to abandon him.

 

Rusty grinned widely. “Ex mobster,” he said simply. “And thanks, Livingston. I promise I'll be careful.”

 

And that was another reason he couldn't leave. He had absolutely no doubt that Rusty would be careful. Far, far more careful than he ever would be if he was on his own.

 

*

 

Mario Silver apparently operated out of a laundromat. Livingston had to say, he hadn't been expecting that.

 

“It's a cover,” Rusty told him in a low voice, as they stood outside, looking it over.

 

“For money laundering?” he asked, largely involuntarily.

 

Rusty laughed. “Unfortunately not. There's a gambling den upstairs. That's where Mario will be.”

 

“And, uh, Fister?” Livingston asked.

 

There was a pause. “Maybe,” Rusty agreed eventually. He sighed. “I don't want to risk walking in without knowing,” he admitted. “I guess we're just gonna have to wait here until the place shuts and everyone leaves.”

 

He stole a glance at Rusty. Admittedly, there were plenty of things you shouldn't be doing with a head injury, but lengthy stake-outs probably appeared on that list. “I'm no expert, but are illegal gambling dens normally known for keeping regular hours?” he asked.

 

Rusty sighed. “I'm not even sure if it closes at all,” he admitted dispiritedly.

 

“So what we need is a way to see into the room without being in there ourselves?” He gave a small smile. “It's a good thing you have me then, right?”

 

“You got something?” Rusty asked, returning the smile easily.

 

In response, Livingston looked up at the building. “Do you think you can get us into the apartment above?”

 

“Easy,” Rusty said confidently.

 

*

 

Surprisingly, considering the way the rest of the night was going, 'easy' turned out to be exactly right. Rusty simply pressed a random door buzzer and claimed to be from another apartment and locked out, and they were in, and, apparently, with a standing invitation to an open house night next Friday. And then, in spite of having an elaborate cover story ready about being from the telephone company, it turned out that the apartment above the gambling den was empty.

 

“So what you got to do?” Rusty asked as Livingston dug through his rucksack.

 

“Just a minute, I've got it in here somewhere....” he said, hoping against hope that he actually had grabbed the things he thought he'd grabbed. “Aha!” Triumphantly, he held up a long coil of wire.

 

“Good?” Rusty said with raised eyebrows.

 

“There's a camera on the end of this,” Livingston explained, holding it up. “See?”

 

Rusty looked. “'s tiny,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Livingston agreed. “So if we drop this wire out the window so it lines up with the window below, no one will see. Trust me.” It had worked before, more than once. “Then all we need to do is connect it to my laptop and we'll have all the surveillance footage we need. Um, unless they have blinds.”

 

“Fingers crossed,” Rusty nodded, hauling the windows open.

 

“So, how's your head?” he asked as he got set up, and he was trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

 

Rusty wasn't fooled. Of course. “Pounding,” he admitted, leaning against the wall and sliding down with a sigh and a half gasp of pain. “And my ribs are killing me too.”

 

“You know, we could call it a night,” he suggested hopefully. “I mean, Silver is still going to be there tomorrow, right? So you could go home and get rested up, and we could try again in the morning.”

 

Rusty scrubbed his hand across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “Thing is, once they've fenced the rings, the fence will be working on getting rid of them, and they could end up anywhere. Our best best to trace them is while they're still as close to the source as possible.”

 

Unfortunately, that made sense. “Maybe we should call someone else then?” he suggested. “I mean, you know Saul would be happy to help.”

 

“You're just going through everyone you can think of who might be able to make me see sense, right?” Rusty asked with a grin.

 

Livingston glared at him. “You and sense can't hope to see each other with the naked eye,” he said crossly.

 

“Talking of seeing...” Rusty said hopefully.

 

“Almost there,” Livingston told him, quickly clicking through a few settings on the laptop and the pictures flashed up on screen. The inside of the gambling den. There were several tables covered in slips of paper, piles of cash in front of a safe and a big screen TV showing soccer. He hadn't even known people bet on that. There were six people in the room, two of them working and four customers. He leaned in closer; none of them looked like Rusty's description.

 

He exhaled slowly. “They're not there.”

 

“Yeah,” Rusty said, sounding disappointed. “I suppose that would have been too simple.”

 

“So what now?” he asked, kind of hoping that the answer would be 'We go home'.

 

“I'm guessing Silver is going to know who Fister and his friends fence with,” Rusty said, his fingers rubbing around his mouth.

 

He sighed. “Are we back to asking nicely?”

 

“It's a start,” Rusty said with a shrug.

 

It was, he supposed. It just maybe wasn't the _best_ start.

 

*

 

As they went back downstairs, Livingston heard a merry little tune coming from his rucksack. “Oh! That's my phone.”

 

Rusty cocked his head. “It's after one in the morning.”

 

“It's Danny,” Livingston announced, looking at it apprehensively. Danny phoning at one in the morning wasn't exactly a normal occurrence, but then he and Rusty walking into an ex-mobster's laundromat/gambling den wasn't exactly normal, and Livingston would be willing to bet the two were linked. After all, from Danny's point of view, Rusty was probably missing. He just wouldn't have thought there would be any way that Danny could have realised that yet. “Do you....you should talk to him.”

 

“No,” Rusty shook his head. “If I talk to him, he's going to think something's wrong.”

 

“Something _is_ wrong,” Livingston pointed out, but he answered the phone anyway. “Uh, hi, Danny.”

 

“Have you seen him?” Danny asked immediately.

 

“Um, well...” He hesitated for a second, looking at Rusty. If he said yes, Danny would want to talk to Rusty, and that apparently wasn't going to happen. But if he said no then Danny would continue to be worried, and that wasn't any good either. “Yes,” he said, glaring at Rusty. He hated being in the middle. “He's, uh, with me.”

 

“Good,” Danny said, sounding relieved. “He wasn't answering his phone.”

 

That would be because Rusty's phone was currently with a guy named Fister, Livingston would guess. “Well, he's....” He wasn't fine. “Here,” he finished, lamely.

 

Rusty was making gestures at him to get off the phone.

 

“You mind putting him on for a second?” Danny asked. “Tess wanted to check something about the rehearsal dinner - “

 

“ - no,” Livingston blurted out. “Sorry, Danny, we're kind of in the middle of something.” That was true, but he had to think of something before Danny asked what. “Oh!” he gasped, trying to sound breathy and surprised. “Rus', don't....um, sorry, Danny, I should go.” He hung up quickly.

 

Rusty was looking at him. “You know that's not what you sound like when you're having sex, right?”

 

Livingston gritted his teeth. “Yes, but Danny doesn't know that.” He frowned. “Uh, Danny _doesn't_ know that, right?”

 

“No!” Rusty blinked. “I tell Danny everything, but I don't tell him _everything._ ” He shook his head slowly. “Congratulations, Livingston, you've finally found a level of sharing that me and Danny would actually find uncomfortable.”

 

“Wonders will never cease,” he said dryly. He paused. “You know, Danny was worried.”

 

“Yeah,” Rusty agreed.

 

“And that was only because you weren't answering your phone,” Livingston went on. “Imagine how he'd feel if he knew you were running around New York with a concussion, looking for people with increasingly stupid names.”

 

Rusty looked sulky. “Oh, because being named after a small town in the middle of Scotland makes so much sense.”

 

“Says the guy named after the result of the iron oxidation process,” Livingston said immediately. “Look, do you really want to make him worry?”

 

“Of course not,” Rusty sighed. “I just...I really don't want to tell him about the rings. Because he'll be fine with it, but it's not fine.” He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye viciously. “Besides. 's got to be unlucky, right?”

 

“Unlucky?” Livingston repeated.

 

“A bad omen for a wedding,” Rusty explained, smiling ever so slightly. “Like the bride signing her married name before the wedding, or seeing a pig on the way to the church. Losing the wedding rings has to be a bad sign.”

 

“A pig?” Livingston questioned, frowning hard. “Where are you going to find a pig in New York?”

 

“At this hour?” Rusty added absently. “Let's get going.”

 

There was no one in the laundromat except the woman sitting behind the counter, vigorously chewing gum and folding shirts, and Livingston's nose wrinkled as spittle flew out and landed across the shirts. Oh, that was disgusting.

 

“Hi there,” Rusty said as he walked in, a couple of folded bills already visible in his hand. “I want to speak to Silver.”

 

“I dunno what you're talking about,” she said mechanically, but her eyes were fixed on the money.

 

Rusty added another couple of bills smoothly. “We're friends of Charlie Atlas.”

 

“Uh huh.” She reached out and grabbed at the cash greedily, and Rusty let her take half. “Lemme go check in the back. See if anyone's heard of this Mario guy.”

 

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Rusty murmured as she vanished through a bead curtain.

 

Livingston shrugged. “Well, I was going to say we don't look like undercover cops, but that jacket is straight out of Miami Vice.”

 

Rusty looked down at himself critically. “Right down to the blood on the collar. Huh. What do you think this place charges for dry cleaning?”

 

He glanced over at the price list. “Uh, too much. Guess they want to discourage passing trade.”

 

“Yeah.” Rusty pulled at his collar unhappily. “This is gonna stain.”

 

“It's torn at the back anyway,” Livingston told him. “So I wouldn't worry too much.”

 

“Right. So I'll add a new suit onto what these guys owe me,” Rusty said, his face perfectly straight.

 

Livingston sighed. “You know, I'd be happier with your life choices if you were more worried about your head than your clothes.”

 

“Gotta dress to impress in this game,” Rusty smiled.

 

The woman reappeared through the curtain. “Yeah, Mr Silver will see you now,” she said, her tone so uninterested that Livingston was reminded of his last trip to the doctor.

 

“Thank you,” Rusty said, passing her the rest of the cash as they walked by.

 

The gambling den was exactly as it had appeared on his surveillance video, but he still found himself looking round anxiously to make absolutely sure that there was no sign of Fister and his friends. He already knew they were going to be outnumbered three to two – and outmuscled by about thirty seven to one – but if this happened here, with all these people, they would quite simply _die._

 

Fortunately, there was no sign of them, and the only person who paid any attention to them whatsoever was a small, balding man with a calculating smile, who walked over to them followed by his freakishly large bodyguard. “So who are you, and what do you want?” he asked curiously.

 

This had to be Mario Silver, Livingston guessed.

 

“My name is Rusty Ryan, Mr Silver,” Rusty said with an air of deference that would be enough to fool Livingston if he didn't know so much better. “I'm trying to find a couple of your employees, or at least who they would go to in order to....dispose of some stolen property.”

 

“Stolen property?” Silver gave a brief laugh. “Do I look like a man who knows anything about stolen property?”

 

Yes. He really kind of did.

 

“Like I said, I'm just trying to trace some of your people,” Rusty said respectfully. “A man who calls himself Fister, and his two _associates,_ King and AJ.”   
  


Silver pursed his lips. “Maybe I know those names, maybe I don't. I'll need to make a few phone calls.”

 

“Of course,” Rusty nodded. “We'll just wait right here.”

 

“Sure,” Silver nodded expansively. “Why don't you grab yourselves a cold one from the fridge? Only ten dollars, give it to Miguel there.”

 

“Ten dollars for beer?” Rusty pulled a face as Silver walked away. “They don't charge that much at Radical.”

 

“That's where we met,” Livingston commented. “And you don't pay for drinks anyway.”

 

“Sometimes I pay for drinks,” Rusty protested, handing over a twenty and taking two bottles.

 

Budweiser, Livingston noticed. This was getting worse all the time. “Uh, I don't drink beer, remember? And you shouldn't be drinking with a concussion.”

 

“I'm thirsty,” Rusty explained without a hint of apology, as he cracked the bottle open, and it took Livingston a second to realise that he was surreptitiously holding it against his face. Right. Because an ice pack would be too normal.

 

“Rus'....” he said, and there was a whole bunch of things he wanted to say but he'd said them all before. This was a bad idea and if Rusty was hurting this much they should go to a doctor.

 

“'m okay,” Rusty told him with a tired smile. “I can make it.”

 

He wasn't so sure. And he wanted to do something demonstrative, like maybe reach out and take Rusty's hand, or even just lean against him, or pat him on the shoulder or something. But there were people all around them, and he knew Rusty wanted to look strong, and besides, he always felt awkward doing that kind of thing anyway. So he just smiled, hoping it conveyed some kind of message of support and affection, and they stood together in companionable silence until Silver came back.

 

“So. I make my calls and I find out everything I need to know,” he announced stridently, the bodyguard at his side once again a silent shadow.

 

“About uh, Fister?” Livingston hazarded.

 

“About me,” Rusty corrected, a small smile playing over his face.

 

Mario pointed a finger at him agreeably. “Exactly. About you. And you check out. As it turns out, you are quite a well known little thief. Brilliant, is the word most often used. The sort of guy who can steal the shirt from your back.”

 

“And the song from your heart,” Rusty grinned.

 

Mario laughed. “Yeah. Cute. So, I don't want to know why you're looking for Fister or stolen property. He doesn't steal for me.”

 

“No,” Rusty agreed. “He doesn't _steal_ for you.”

 

“But if he and his crew go out on their own time and commit the occasional petty crime....that's not my business,” Mario went on. “Not unless it leads undesirable elements to my place.”

 

And that made them the undesirable element. And being an undesirable element didn't exactly sound like the healthiest place to be.

 

“Perhaps we can come to some agreement,” Rusty suggested, tilting his head to one side.

 

“Perhaps we can,” Mario allowed. “As it happens, there is a certain...item I wish to acquire. Now, you got to understand, I have people capable of doing this job. But doing it their way would create a lot of noise and fuss. If you were to do it more quietly, maybe I could tell you what you need to know.”

 

“Uh huh.” Rusty folded his arms. “What do you need?”

 

Mario smiled coldly. “There is a package en route to one of my former associates. I want it. It's currently being stored at a USPS warehouse. I got the address and the tracking number here. You do not need to know what is in the package.”

 

“The things people will do to avoid paying postage,” Rusty murmured as he took the proffered paper. “I can take care of this. I'll be back by morning.”

 

“Back by morning?” Livingston repeated as they left the building. “Isn't that a little rash?”

 

Rusty shrugged. “I don't have a whole amount of choice.”

 

“Sure,” Livingston agreed hastily. “It's just you're maybe going a little, uh, Captain Ahab about this.”

 

Rusty stopped and turned to look straight at him. “He tasks me. He tasks me and I shall have him. I'll chase him 'round the moons of Nibia and 'round the Antares Maelstrom and 'round perdition's flames before I give him up.”

 

“Uh huh.” Livingston sighed. “You do know that's Wrath of Khan, not Moby Dick, right?”

 

“Maybe,” Rusty said with a charming smile.

 

“And no one called _Fister_ is ever going to be cool enough to be Captain James T Kirk,” he added firmly. 

 

“No argument there,” Rusty agreed. “Come on. Let's get to the warehouse and see what's what. You can drive.”

 

“Sure,” he said absently as they headed for the car. Then he frowned. “Wait. Did you just deflect me with Star Trek quotes?” Again?

 

*

 

The warehouse was a flat two storey building in the middle of a built-up area, which wasn't so good for any kind of sneakiness. Plus there were obvious surveillance cameras covering all sides.

 

“Not the best place to break into,” he said unhappily.

 

“Tampering with the mail is a federal crime,” Rusty said gravely. “Guess they take that seriously.”

 

“Yes.” He stole a glance at Rusty. “You know how you were worrying that losing the wedding rings was unlucky?”

 

“Uh huh,” Rusty nodded.

 

“I can't help but think that it's probably more unlucky to lose the best man,” he said, half-serious.

 

Rusty shrugged. “You can always get another best man. Rings are hard to come by.”

 

He shook his head slowly. “You know, I would really love to be there when you explain that to Danny.”

 

“No you wouldn't,” Rusty said, entirely accurately. He looked at the building and sighed. “You got anything that might help?”

 

“What do you need?” he asked, with barely a trace of a sigh.

 

“The security system taken out?” Rusty said promptly, but without much hope.

 

Livingston smiled and looked towards the main entrance and the security guard sitting behind a monitor. “Can you get me a minute with that computer?” he asked.

 

“Let's find out,” Rusty said with a smile.

 

He followed Rusty up to the entrance and, at his direction, waited just outside the door as Rusty staggered inside, clutching at his head dramatically.

 

The security guard jumped to his feet. “What is it? What's going on?”

 

“I was attacked...” Rusty said, his voice quavering. “Three guys, they beat me up and took my wallet. Can I...can I use your phone to call my friend and have him come pick me up?”

 

“Of course,” the guard said at once. “Here you are. But shouldn't you call the police, or an ambulance? You don't look so hot.”

 

That was what Livingston had been saying all night.

 

“No, no, I'll be fine, thank you,” Rusty said, and Livingston could picture the brave but watery smile. “I'll go to the police in the morning. Right now I just want to get home.” There was the sound of numbers being dialled and Livingston wondered who Rusty was calling? Not him, thankfully, the sound of his phone ringing would be a bit of a give-away. Maybe Rusty's own apartment phone. At any rate he listened as Rusty hailed someone named 'Chuck' and explained the situation, gave the street address, and thanked 'Chuck' profusely, and Livingston would never have guessed there wasn't someone on the other end of the line so he really doubted that the security guard had any way of telling.

 

“Thanks, man,” Rusty said after he'd hung up. “I'll wait outside, but, um, is there any chance I could trouble you for a glass of water?”

 

“Sure, buddy, no problem, here you go,” the guard said immediately.

 

“Thanks.” There was a brief pause, then a crash and the sound of water spilling everywhere.

 

“Shit!” the guard exclaimed loudly.

 

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry, it was an accident, I didn't mean...I'd better go.” A second later Rusty sprinted out the door and past him, not looking round.

 

“Shit,” the guard said again heavily, and Livingston flattened himself against the wall as he approached, looked through the glass carefully, and then turned the key, locking it. Then he waited breathlessly as he heard the footsteps walk on past hurriedly, and the door on the far side opening and shutting. Going to get some towels to clean up the mess, he guessed, and a second later Rusty had reappeared and was effortlessly picking the lock.

 

“And here we go,” he murmured, and Livingston followed him inside, treading carefully, avoiding the pool of water and broken glass and heading for the computer. Quickly he inserted the floppy disc and started installing the program.

 

“How long will it take?” Rusty asked.

 

He bit his lip. “Two minutes?” he estimated.

 

“Right.” Rusty quickly locked the door the security guard had gone through. “Just in case.”

 

He crossed his fingers and hoped it wouldn't come to that. It wouldn't matter _what_ he did to the security system if they already knew someone was accessing it. While the program was still running he had a quick look at what else was on the computer. Ah. Search database. “Have you still got that tracking info?” he asked, bringing up a query. 

 

With raised eyebrows, Rusty handed it over.

 

Livingston tapped it in quickly. “The package you're looking for is in the East wing, stack thirty-two, shelf fifty-seven B,” he announced.

 

Rusty was looking at him and the smile was warm and delighted. “Have I told you lately you're fantastic?”

 

He blushed. “That's, uh, that's me done,” he announced hurriedly as his program finished installing and he quickly pulled out the disk and went about making sure no trace remained.

 

“Okay,” Rusty said, listening at the door for a second before nodding and unlocking it, and then they were both outside and hurrying away before the security guard reappeared.

 

“What now?” Rusty asked expectantly.

 

“I need a phone line,” Livingston told him. “That should do.” He pointed towards a junction box and soon he was online and the apartment building opposite...wasn't. Sorry, guys. Still, even if someone reported a fault, they'd be long gone before anyone came to check.

 

Now it was just a matter of using his program to get remote access into their security system and changing the way the feeds were directed and.....”There,” he said proudly as views from a dozen security cameras filled the screen. “Now I can see what's happening in the warehouse and they can't.”

 

“Seriously. Fantastic,” Rusty told him with a smile.

 

He felt his cheeks turn pink again. “I guess they're going to be checking the warehouse more.”

 

“I'll be careful,” Rusty promised.

 

Livingston rummaged around his bag for a second and came up with a short wave radio and a headset. “With this I'll be able to let you know where the guards are,” he told Rusty. “The microphone is very sensitive – it'll pick up a whisper – so you don't need to worry about them hearing you either.” Rusty went to take it and he pulled it away slightly. “It's very sensitive,” he emphasised. “And it's very breakable. So be careful.”

 

“Thanks,” Rusty said, examining it before putting it on.

 

“I feel like Q,” Livingston commented with a smile.

 

Rusty grinned. “Doesn't that make me James Bond?”

 

He snorted. “I don't think James Bond ever wandered around with a concussion.”

 

“Oh, he probably did,” Rusty said easily. “They just didn't show those parts.”

 

Like that made sense.

 

*

 

If there was one part of his job Livingston loved and hated most it was watching his friends breaking into places. It never failed to set his nerves on a knife edge, and he was sure his blood pressure must be sky rocketing.

 

This was even worse than usual, because Rusty was on his own and injured, and as soon as Livingston caught sight of him crawling through the window in the back of the warehouse he started driving himself out of his mind imagining how bad this could get. Suppose Rusty's concussion got worse and he collapsed in there? Suppose his head started bleeding again, and he left some DNA evidence that could be traced back to them? Suppose this was all a set up and Silver had already called the police, or worse, Fister? The possibilities were endless, and Livingston wouldn't be able to do anything except – at best – warn Rusty what was coming.

 

And talking of warning... “Two guards just entered the warehouse,” he said in a low voice. “They're coming round the far left hand side. Uh, your left. You'll be fine as long as you stick close to the wall.”

 

On screen, Rusty nodded tersely and did as he said. The picture wasn't nearly sharp enough for him to make out the shelf or stack numbers, unfortunately, but the labels on the cameras suggested that Rusty was at least heading in the right direction.

 

Breathlessly, he watched as Rusty took a sharp right round another set of shelves and started hunting through the packages on the far side.

 

At the sound of a car, he looked up sharply. Someone was driving down the street towards him. He ducked his head quickly and concentrated on trying to look like a perfectly normal phone company employee, just making sure that all these phonelines were properly connected. He didn't like this; normally if he was doing this kind of stuff Rusty and Danny would have set him up with an ID he could flash if anyone asked any questions. This whole spontaneous thing really didn't suit him at all.

 

He breathed a sigh of relief as the car went right on past without even slowing down, and turned his attention back to the monitor in time to see the guards heading back towards Rusty. Oh, damn! “Uh, they're coming your way,” he hissed into the radio.

 

Thankfully Rusty didn't waste time; he immediately ducked behind a shelf and hid himself behind a large stack of boxes. The guards were still going to walk _right by him_ though, and Livingston didn't even breathe as they stopped less than a foot away from where Rusty was hiding. They were talking about something....God, he wished this had sound. They didn't look like they were overly suspicious, but he still breathed a sigh of relief when they finally moved on. 

 

“Okay, they're through the door,” he said needlessly as the door shut, and he waited tensely until Rusty reappeared, holding a package. “Is that it?” he asked.

 

“That's it,” Rusty said in a whisper, and just like he'd said the microphone picked it up loud and clear.

 

“Huh.” He looked at it thoughtfully. “It's bigger than I thought it would be.”

 

Rusty looked up at the camera. “I get that a lot.”

 

He smiled involuntarily. “In your dreams.”

 

“Really? We're doing this?” Rusty raised his eyebrows. “I have a head injury. You should be nice to me.”

 

“You should get out of there,” Livingston reminded him.

 

Rusty grinned and headed for the window, to Livingston's relief.

 

*

 

Package in hand, they headed back towards Silver's laundromat.

 

“What do you think is in here?” Rusty asked, shaking it gently as Livingston drove.

 

“I, uh, don't think we want to know,” he said. It was almost certainly something dangerous or distasteful, and the way he saw it, it was far better if they didn't get anymore involved than they were. “Besides, if Silver even thinks that we've looked I'm sure he won't tell us where Fister is.” Which might just be a good thing, except he had a feeling that either way was likely to end in violence.

 

He still could not see a way tonight was going to end well.

 

“It's not just about the rings, you know?” Rusty said suddenly.

 

He blinked. “What?”

 

“It's not just about the rings. I mean, I need to get them back, no question, but the thing is, I like Tess.”

 

Really, he had no idea where this was going, so he just drove and waited for Rusty to collect his thoughts.

 

“I do. And I like the way she is with Danny, and I like the way Danny is with her, and I wouldn't want to do anything to get in the way of that.”

 

He frowned. “You think  _Tess_ will be angry with you?” he asked, not understanding. 

 

“No!” Rusty answered. “Maybe. I don't know. 's just....you know how me and Danny are.”

 

He nodded. He knew.

 

“That's....a lot to deal with,” Rusty said carefully. “And there have been times when people didn't understand. But Tess does.”

 

“So what's the problem?” he asked gently.

 

“Everything's changing,” Rusty said, and there was an undercurrent of raw emotion in his voice and Livingston knew that if it wasn't for the head injury he'd never be talking like this, but that didn't make it any less painful to hear. “And I'm fine with that, really. I'm happy Danny's getting married. I'm happy for both of them. And I don't want anyone to think that I'm not. I don't want anyone to think that I might be....trying to _sabotage_ this, or something.” 

 

“By getting mugged?” Livingston couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.

 

He winced as Rusty blinked and looked away from him, visibly closing down. “Yeah. 's stupid, I know. Forget about it. Let's just get the rings back.”

 

“I'm sorry,” he tried. “It's just....no one's going to think anything like that.” How could they? Anyone who knew Rusty – really knew him – knew that Danny's happiness was his main motivation.

 

“We're here,” Rusty said, still not looking at him. “Look, there's a parking space.”

 

He sighed. Somehow, he'd managed to screw tonight up even more than it already was.

 

*

 

They walked straight through the laundromat and upstairs. Silver was waiting, and this was getting ridiculous. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but surely someone, somewhere, must be planning on getting at least a little shut eye.

 

“My package,” Silver said with a pleased smile, looking at the box in Rusty's hands. “It looks as though your reputation was not bullshit after all.”

 

Rusty smiled back. “You ready to tell me about Fister and his friends?”

 

“Sure.” Silver waved his hand. “A small thing, of no consequence. When Fister and his friends have things to fence, there is a bar they frequent. Some squalid, basement place called Shorty's. These are details I do not concern myself with, but that is where they are most likely to be. My man shall give you directions.”

 

With no visible expression, Silver's bodyguard held out a scrap of paper with a street address scrawled on it.

 

“Uh, thanks,” he said, taking it at Rusty's nod. A bar called Shorty's and a man named Whittard. At least that was precise.

 

Silver was still focused on Rusty, his eyes narrowed. “You know, you came through for me tonight. You pleased me. Perhaps, if I have some work in the future - “

 

“ - no,” Rusty said, with what seemed like a dangerous finality. “No. This was a one-off.”

 

There was an infinitesimal pause. “I see,” Silver said. “It is lucky for you I am a man who can accept rejection.”

 

“Yes,” Rusty agreed. “Lucky me. Thank you for your time, Mr Silver. We'll see ourselves out.”

 

Livingston waited until they were outside before speaking. “Uh, he didn't seem like a man who likes rejection.”

 

“No,” Rusty agreed grimly. “I think he's someone to try and avoid in future.”

 

“Right,” Livingston sighed. “So so far tonight, I've lost four hundred dollars in a poker game, helped break into a USPS building and made an enemy of an ex-mobster. And we _still_ don't have Danny's rings back.” 

 

Rusty looked down at the address. “We're close, though. Let's just hope they're here and we can just buy them back.”

 

Livingston seriously doubted that was the way their luck was running tonight.

 

*

 

It was well after four in the morning by now, but the bar the bar looked open in a boarded-up-windows, hasn't-seen-a-fresh-coat-of-paint-in-half-a-century sort of way. There was blood, broken glass and what appeared to be a broken hypodermic needle lying on the stairs down to the entrance.

 

As they stood looking at it in silence, a popping noise came from a couple of streets behind them.

 

“Was that gunfire?” he asked nervously.

 

Rusty glanced at him. “Maybe you should wait in the car,” he suggested.

 

“Maybe we should both just get in the car and drive away,” he answered. About now, he was thinking longingly of bed, or at least coffee.

 

“Seriously,” Rusty said quietly.

 

“Not a chance,” he said determinedly, taking a step towards the door.

 

“At least leave your bag in the car,” Rusty advised.

 

That was probably a good idea. There were a lot of expensive things in his rucksack, and most of them looked quite suspicious as well. Walking into an unfamiliar fence with them likely wasn't wise.

 

The car was parked a block or so away, and as they walked back, his phone started to ring again. He juggled his rucksack and car keys awkwardly for a moment before Rusty obligingly took both out of his hand and held the bag open for Livingston to retrieve his phone.

 

“Don't tell me,” Rusty said with a sigh.

 

“It's Danny,” Livingston confirmed miserably as he looked at the display. “I can't just not answer it.” For Danny to be phoning again, he must still be worried....or something else had gone disastrously wrong.

 

Rusty looked like he'd dearly love Livingston not to answer it. But he nodded, his lips pressed tight together.

 

“Uh, hi, Danny,” Livingston said, and he winced at the complete and utter lack of nonchalance in his voice.

 

“Are you ready to tell me where you are yet?” Danny asked lightly.

 

He glanced at Rusty in mute appeal, and Rusty shook his head. “I guess not. Sorry, Danny.”

 

“You're not at your place. You're not at Rusty's. You're not at any of your usual hangouts. And no one's seen you, though plenty of people have heard from you. I know you're looking for someone, I just don't know who, or why Rus' isn't answering his phone, or why you're doing it at four o'clock in the morning.”

 

He looked at Rusty again. “I guess that's sort of classified. Sorry.”

 

“Can I talk to him? Please?” Danny sounded frustrated, or at least as frustrated as Danny ever got. But then, nothing could drive Danny crazy like Rusty could.

 

“Sorry, Danny,” he said again unhappily as Rusty turned away.

 

Danny sighed. “Can you at least tell me he's okay?”

 

Livingston hesitated. He knew what Rusty wanted him to say, but it was far from the truth and he didn't want to lie to Danny either. “He's doing okay,” he offered, after the hesitation had already stretched out a little too long. It was a carefully considered truth, he told himself. Rusty was doing okay for someone with a head injury. Livingston knew the signs he was looking for, and yeah, he'd seen pain, dizziness and a mild aversion to bright lights, but Rusty hadn't thrown up and he hadn't seemed drowsy or too confused, and that was going to have to be good enough for now.

 

“Doing okay, huh?” Danny said wryly, and Livingston winced again. Obviously Danny had caught the obfuscation. “When I finally manage to track you down, him and me are going to have _words._ ”

 

“I'll let him know,” he promised. “I'll, uh, see you later, Danny.”

 

He hung up. “Danny's worried about you,” he started to say, but before he'd managed to get much past 'worried', Rusty had grabbed his arm and puled him back behind the car. “What?” he squeaked in confusion.

 

“Stay down,” Rusty hissed, peering round the edge of the trunk.

 

Instinctively, he leaned over for a look himself, pressed lightly across Rusty's back.

 

There were three men walking down the street towards Shorty's. One was a big man in a leather jacket with a scarred face, and the other two were slightly smaller, one with a blue-black mullet and one with the word 'king' saved into the back of his head.

 

“That's them,” he whispered disbelievingly.

 

“I know,” Rusty told him sharply.

 

They vanished down the stairs into the bar. He swallowed hard. They'd all looked even meaner than he'd imagined, but at the same time these were the men who'd hurt Rusty over nothing more than a handful of cash and some jewellery. And he was very, very angry about that.

 

“So what do we do now?” he asked calmly. “Do we wait until they've gone out again and go try and buy the rings off Whittard?”

 

Rusty paused, his fingers rubbing around his mouth slowly. “Suppose they don't sell them after all?” he asked eventually. “Or at least not here and now.”

  
He blinked. “But isn't that the assumption we've been working on all night?” he asked.

 

“It was never a sure thing,” Rusty admitted with a grimace. “No, the only people who know beyond all doubt where the rings were just walked into the bar, and I don't want to let them go.”

 

“Rus'....” He sighed. He could see the look of stubborn desperation in Rusty's eyes. “Okay,” he said at last. “What's the plan?”

 

Rusty smiled. “Can I borrow your phone?” he asked.

 

Livingston handed it over immediately. “Are you going to call someone for help?” he asked hopefully. Someone like Danny?

 

The smile grew wider. “Something like that.”

 

*

 

With trepidation, Livingston followed Rusty downstairs and into the bar. The doors swung shut behind them, and once again Livingston was put in mind of old Westerns. At least this time there were only four other people in the place – well, five if you counted the bartender. Mind you, since three of those people were the ones who'd beaten Rusty up, he wasn't sure how comforting that really was.

 

Fister and his friends were sitting at a table near the back, talking to a small man with a squint. Livingston guessed that would be Whittard the fence.

 

Rusty strode straight over to them, and Livingston spotted the way the quickly snatched phones, wallets and assorted stolen goods off the table. He _thought_ he'd seen a ringbox, but he couldn't be completely sure. After all, he'd never seen it before.

 

“Hi there,” Rusty said, smiling sharply down at them. “I wonder if you remember me.”

 

The closest one – King – glared up at him. “Hey, this is a private conversation, asshole. Get lost.”

 

“Hey, he does look familiar,” AJ added. “Holy fuck, it's the faggot from the alley! I remember that shirt.”

 

“Shit, so it is,” Fister agreed, staring straight at Rusty, and there was nothing in his eyes but mild surprise and amusement. They were setting themselves up as entertainment here. “How the fuck did you track us down, faggot?”

 

Rusty shrugged. “Wasn't hard. And now I would like my stuff back please.”

 

There was an outbreak of laughter. “He'd like his stuff back,” Kind crowed. “What, you feeling all brave now you've got your little boyfriend with you?”

 

Rusty smiled some more, that brilliant smile of absolute confidence that always seemed bulletproof. Livingston was _really_ hoping that they wouldn't have to test that. “Why don't I buy you boys a drink and we can talk about this?” he suggested.

 

“Why don't you fuck off before you get my boot up your ass?” King suggested.

 

AJ sniggered. “He'd probably like that.”

 

“We found these,” Fister said, holding up the ringbox and opening it with a meaty grin. “Planning on proposing to your boyfriend?” That brilliant witticism was met with another roar of laughter.

 

“Give them back and you can keep everything else,” Rusty suggested almost gently. “In fact, I'll even pay you extra. More than they're worth.”

 

“You'll pay us with what?” King jeered. “We already got your wallet.” He held it up triumphantly and read out the drivers license. “Mr Alphonse Richards of 350, 5th Avenue New York.”

 

“That's right, fag,” Fister grinned widely. “We know where you live. So maybe you should just walk away right now, else me and my boys might just come along one night and pay you and your little boyfriend a visit. See what else you got?”

 

Livingston tried to keep the sigh of relief inside. At least if they managed to get out of here they wouldn't need to worry about them tracking Rusty down.”

 

“Tell you what though,” Fister went on, leaning back in his chair, his grin gaping wide. “Me and my friends are getting bored. Why don't you dance for us? If you entertain us good enough, maybe I'll let you have these back.”

 

Yeah, this happened in the old Westerns too. Usually with the bad guy shooting at his victim's feet. Livingston hoped that wasn't going to happen here.

 

“Okay then,” Rusty said, his voice pitched low and sultry, and with a look he swept the glasses on the table to the side.

 

“Wh-what are you doing?” Fister demanded.

 

Rusty hopped up onto the table and smiled, crossing his legs and leaning back. “You wanted a dance, right?” he purred.

 

This _really_ wasn't a good idea. The plan was to keep them distracted and off-balance for as long as possible, but this...this was lunacy.

 

But the four men were sitting, mouths gaping as Rusty smoothly pushed himself up and started swaying in time to the music pulsing from the jukebox, the dance sensual and obscene in equal measures. His hands travelled gracefully over his body, lingering around his chest and hips and Livingston could feel his face burning, even as he carefully moved around behind the table to the side of the bar.

 

“Fuck _me,”_ AJ said in a stunned whisper.

 

Fister's eyes were fixed on Rusty hungrily. “I'd rather fuck _him_ ,” he said. There was anticipation in his voice that made Livingston shiver with disgust, but Rusty just smiled widely and leaned forward towards Fister with a soft little intake of breath, practically crooning as he trailed his hand down Fister's chest. He was almost sitting in Fister's lap when his hand slipped inside Fister's jacket smoothly.

 

“Thank you,” he said as he produced the ring box, and before Fister had time to react, Rusty's hand shot flat out, palm straight, crashing into his nose with a vicious crunching sound.

 

Fister screamed with pain, and a half second later, Rusty had his foot on the edge of the tilted back chair, and he pushed, smartly knocking man and chair to the ground.

 

“What the fuck?” AJ started to say, and Livingston grabbed the nearest bottle from the bar and smashed it across his head.

 

“Sorry,” he said automatically as AJ went down in a heap, thankfully showing no signs of getting up again.

 

King stumbled to his feet, grabbing for something at his back – a gun? A knife? Livingston wasn't sure, because by then Rusty had dropped off the table, grabbed the empty chair and swung it, quick and vicious and King fell as well.

 

Rusty was on to of him in an instant, going through his pockets and pulling out the rest of his stuff, plus quite a lot of cash that Livingston was pretty sure he hadn't had in the first place.

 

Heaving another bottle, hopefully threateningly, Livingston turned to glare at Whittard, but the fence was just sitting there, his jaw hanging open, not even moving. When he saw Livingston looking, he held up his hands quickly. “Hey, I'm not part of this. I don't want no trouble.”

 

“You'd better be,” Livingston said, with more wild menace than sense.

 

With a groan, Fister dragged himself up off the ground, a gun impossibly appearing in his hand. “You're dead, faggot,” he said to Rusty unsteadily, wiping at the blood gushing freely from his nose. “We're gonna fuck you up so bad you'll beg to die.”

 

“Gentlemen,” Rusty said cheerfully, his gaze taking in the places where AJ and King were struggling off the floor. “As fun as this has been for all of us, there's something I really think you should know. You see, I called the police a few minutes before we came in here, dropped a couple of names, mentioned a couple of code words, and to cut a long story short, the police are somehow under the impression that a million dollar drug deal is happening in this bar right now.”

 

They just gaped at him.

 

“So,” Rusty went on, with a grin that showed all his teeth. “If anyone has anything they don't want the police to see...any stolen goods, or drugs, or hot guns...I'd suggest getting rid of them and getting out of here.”

 

There was a moment of absolute stillness, followed by a whole lot of movement. Chaos broke out as they competed to snatch as many of the stolen goods from around the table as possible. AJ made a desperate break for the bathroom, package of white powder in hand .Whittard just headed straight for the back door.

 

Rusty nodded at Livingston and they quickly – quietly – hurried towards the entrance.

 

“We'll get you for this, faggot,” Fister shouted after them as he frantically tried to wipe his fingerprints off his gun. “Don't forget – we know where you live.”

 

Outside, Rusty grinned at Livingston like this was the best joke he'd ever heard. “I'd really love to see his face when he turns up to strong-arm the Empire State Building,” he murmured.

 

*

 

They were close to a block away when they heard sirens and looked back to see the police converging on the bar.

 

“Think they got out in time?” he asked as they hurried away.

 

Rusty grinned, wolf-like. “Hope not.”

 

Yeah. So did Livingston. Though he wasn't completely sold on the idea that prison was enough of a punishment for everything they'd been through tonight. Though at least he and Rus' had managed to get a few good hits in. He thought back and smiled involuntarily. “That was unbelievably hot!” He felt the weight of the stare and was compelled to add. “Um, not the table-dancing. The other bit. With the chair.”

 

“Right.” Rusty looked slightly relieved. “Look, you ever find the need to tell Danny about tonight, do me a favour and miss out the dancing, okay? I don't think he'd see the funny side.”

 

No. He probably wouldn't. And neither did Livingston, if it came to that. He looked at Rusty, stone-faced.

 

Rusty shrugged. “Hey, it worked, right?”

 

“Apart from taking about ten years off my life,” Livingston agreed, remembering the greedy expression on Fister's face. “You think that Danny would think for a second that getting his wedding rings back was worth you doing _that?_ ” They were almost at the car now. He felt in his pocket for his car keys.

 

“The rings are important,” Rusty said mulishly.

 

“But not more important than you,” Livingston sighed in exasperation, checking his other pockets. Not by anyone's measure. “Uh...” He started patting down his jacket frantically.

 

“I've got them,” Rusty reminded him, producing the keys like a magic trick. “Here.”

 

“Freeze!”

 

They froze.

 

A policeman stepped out of the shadows towards them. “Mind telling me where you boys have been tonight?” he asked.

 

“Rapture,” Rusty said promptly, pointing vaguely back the way they'd come.

 

Livingston waited hopefully, but by the way the cop nodded, there was a club called that around here somewhere.

 

“So you've had a few drinks and now you're planning on driving home?” the cop demanded. “I was watching you coming along the street, boy. You can't even walk in a straight line and you want to drive? People like you make me sick.”

 

“Officer, I can explain,” Rusty began, holding up his hands placatingly.

 

“Up against that wall and keep your hands where I can see them,” the cop ordered.

 

Of course. Livingston sighed. How could he ever imagined tonight was going to end just like that?”

 

*

 

Really, it could have all worked out, he thought gloomily, as he paced around the holding cell nervously. It wasn't as if Rusty had actually been drunk _or_ driving. And even though Rus' had absolutely failed to say the alphabet backwards while touching his nose or any of that, he'd still been doing a good job of talking the cop around, managing to come across as both penitent and innocent at the same time. No, it _could_ have worked out, except that in the course of proceedings, the cop decided to pat them down. And he'd found the ring box. And he'd taken it out of Rusty's pocket. The rest had more or less been inevitable, and now, somehow, the DUI charge had transmuted into resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.

 

“Aren't we supposed to get a phone call or something?” he asked nervously.

 

“They'll get round to it,” Rusty said without moving from his position leaning against the bars on the door. He was staring out towards the front desk, where their stuff had been taken. Livingston figured he was probably trying to retrieve the rings via telekinesis.

 

“You know they'll give them back,” he said, and he _tried_ not to make his voice too sharp, but it had been a very long night. “The guy who arrested us would have as well.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Rusty shrugged. “It's possible my judgement is a little off,” he added seriously.

 

Livingston smiled involuntarily. “Look, we got the rings back, Rus',” he said earnestly. “I mean, _this_ isn't good, but we're going to get through it okay.”

 

Rusty turned his head slightly to look at him. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Did I thank you, Livingston?”

 

“Yes,” he said simply. “You did.”

 

“Well, I'll say it again. Thank you. I swear, I don't know what I'd have done tonight without you.”

 

He felt himself blush. “Oh, you'd have thought of something,” he said dismissively. He couldn't resist adding. “Maybe not something _sensible..._ ”

 

Rusty laughed and immediately pressed his hand against his head. “Ow.”

 

“Is it still bad?” Livingston asked anxiously.

 

“Yeah,” Rusty grimaced. “Seems to have got worse since we stopped moving. Or I'm just noticing it more. What'd you think the chances are of the cops giving me painkillers if I ask nicely?”

 

“Uh, probably quite low,” he said. The cops hadn't seemed particularly interested in anything they had to say, just throwing them in here. He supposed sooner or later someone would want to talk to them, or at least take their photos and prints, but that hadn't happened yet. He did wonder, for a single nervous moment, what would happen if they'd just been forgotten. How long could they be left in here? At least they hadn't needed to give the cops their real names. Rusty still had his Alphonse Richards ID on him, and all Livingston's stuff had been in the trunk of the car. He didn't think Rusty was ready to look on the bright side mind you. “Why don't you sit down for a while?” he suggested, indicating the bench.

 

Looking round, Rusty slouched over where he pointed and sat down. A couple of minutes later and he swung his legs up and stretched out.

 

“Hey, don't go to sleep,” Livingston exclaimed, alarmed.

 

“'m tired,” Rusty mumbled reasonably.

 

“You're concussed,” Livingston reminded him. “You need to stay awake, okay?”

 

“Right.” He sat up slowly. “No slipping into a coma and dying. Got you.”

 

He figured maybe it would be a good idea to change the subject. Get Rusty's mind off things. “So are you going to tell me why all this was so important to you?”

 

“It would be important to anyone, right?” Rusty asked. “I mean, losing the rings a week before the wedding is probably the worst thing a best man can do, right?”

 

Livingston considered. “I suppose you could always sleep with the groom.”

 

Rusty looked at him. “I'm not looking for suggestions, Livingston!”

 

“It just seems that all this wasn't really about the rings,” he pointed out uncomfortably. “You didn't 'lose' the rings, they were stolen. You know, if you'd gone to Danny and told him what happened, he would have dragged you to a doctor and bought new rings.”

 

“But they wouldn't have been _those_ rings,” Rusty insisted stubbornly. He sighed and tilted his head back, eyes closed. “Used to be we spent most of our time together. All day every day. Now it's just some time most days. And once they're married...” He shrugged. “That'll be that.”

 

Troubled, Livingston looked at him. “Rus'...”

 

“I'm not jealous, I'm not _insecure._ ” He spat the wound like it had personally offended him. “I don't think Danny's gonna forget about me, I don't think he's gonna stop seeing me, and I know damn well that 'most days' is nothing to complain about. I'm _not_ complaining. Danny needs me as much as he needs Tess, I understand that. But things are gonna change. Things have already changed. And I'm not...I'm not quite as used to that as I want to be.”

 

“And the rings?” Livingston asked hesitantly.

 

“Are important,” Rusty said with an exhausted shrug. “I need Danny to know...I need _me_ to know...that I know that. Cos if I don't fight for them as much as I can, maybe I'm not as good a friend as I should be.”

 

The speech had been confused, but that didn't make it any less heartfelt. He sighed and sat down beside Rusty. “I think this is the part where Danny would call you an idiot,” he said and he took Rusty's hand and squeezed gently.

 

“Probably,” Rusty admitted. The rings _matter_ Livingston. They're a symbol. They matter to Danny, they matter to Tess and they matter to me. And that means I'd do everything and anything to get them back and hold onto them.”

 

“I get that,” he assured Rusty, still holding his hand. “And you _have._ More than anyone else would. And it's going to be okay, you know, Rus'. You and Danny will figure it out. You'll find the right balance. In the meantime if you're ever...” he almost said lonely. “ _Bored,_ you always know where I am.”

 

Rusty shot him a crooked grin. “You sure you want me taking you up on that? I do some of my best work when I'm bored.”

 

“Don't I know it?” he retorted with a meaningful twitch of his lips.

 

He was quietly pleased when Rusty blinked. “I was talking about stealing.”

 

“Who says I wasn't?” he answered innocently.

 

“Should either of you really be talking about stealing while your in a police cell?” Danny wondered.

 

Oh! Livingston jumped and let go of Rusty's hand. He _really_ hadn't heard Danny come in, but there he was, leaning against the cell door like he didn't have a care in the world.

 

Rusty lifted his head and smiled. “I got an excuse,” he announced. “I have a head injury. My judgement is off. Ask Livingston.”

 

“Uh huh.” Danny's eyes were now fixed grimly on the lump on Rusty's forehead and the bruises on his face. “I see.” He reached out and punched a button on the wall and their cell door slid open. “Okay, we've got maybe ten minutes to get out of here before the cops figure out I'm not a Fed,” he told them.

 

“I need to get my stuff,” Rusty said at once, moving towards the door to the desk.

 

“Can't it - “ Danny began, but Rusty cut him off with a look that could curdle milk. “Then I can - “ Another look. Danny sighed. “Okay then. Go. See you at the back door in four minutes, and if you're not there I'm setting off the fire alarm and coming to find you.”

 

Rusty nodded and vanished.

 

“So, you going to tell me what tonight was all about?” Danny asked companionably as they waited by the back door.

 

“There were, uh, some people we had to track down,” he said vaguely, carefully staring at the wall. “It, um, took a while but we managed it. This,” he indicated the police station with a wave of his hand. “This was just one of those things.”

 

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Assaulting a cop is just one of those things, huh?”

 

“Um.....” He bit his lip. “Danny, this isn't really my...I think you need to talk to Rusty.”

 

“Oh, don't worry,” Danny smiled. “I'm going to have a very long talk with him. I want to hear every detail.”

 

Right. Somehow, Livingston didn't think Rusty was going to be exactly happy with that. And he remembered the crack in Rusty's voice, and the tired emotion, and yes, the _insecurity,_ no matter what Rusty said, and he reached out and grabbed Danny's arm. “Be nice to him,” he said, ridiculously, and the look on Danny's face was priceless.

 

But, gradually, as Danny stared at him, clearly seeing _something,_ the incredulity faded into something more like concern and affection. “Of course,” he said, with quiet sincerity. “Always.”

 

“Am I interrupting something?” Rusty asked from the top of the stairs, and really, Livingston had to stop letting people sneak up on him.

 

Rusty hurried towards them, but stumbled on the last step, and Danny was there in an instant, before it was even possible, catching him and holding him up, and he was sure Danny murmured something to Rusty, but he couldn't hear what it was.

 

“Okay then,” Rusty said brightly, and if no one else was going to mention that Danny's hand was still gripping his arm, Livingston certainly wasn't going to. “So what now?”

 

“Now I'm going to take you home, put you to bed and call Stan to come and take a look at you,” Danny said comfortably. “And no, you're not getting a choice in this. You don't call me when you're in trouble, you have to put up with me fussing.”

 

Rusty sighed deeply, but he didn't actually object, and there was something in his eyes that suggested that maybe, for once, he didn't want to. Though Livingston wouldn't put money on _that_ lasting more than a few hours.

 

“I'll give you a ride back to your place, Livingston?” Danny offered.

 

“Uh, thanks,” he said. His car was still parked near Shorty's bar, but he definitely didn't want to go and get it tonight, or this morning, or whenever this was. In the circumstances, that just seemed like tempting fate.

 

Danny smiled warmly. “No problem. And don't worry – I'll remember what you said.”

 

Rusty looked between both of them with deep suspicion. “Wait, what? What did you say?”

 

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. It had been a long night, but now he felt like he could relax, knowing that Danny would take care of everything.

 

“What did he say?” Rusty demanded again, and Danny just grinned enigmatically and Livingston smiled.

 

In the end, it would all work out. He had faith in them.


End file.
